


I want to try

by kate_the_reader



Series: Fell for you [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Comfort, Developing Relationship, Finally getting together, M/M, first-time nerves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 11:33:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12630096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: "It’s hard to believe that after all this time, after all his baffling rejections and uncertainty, Arthur is coming here, to Eames."





	I want to try

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swtalmnd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd/gifts).



> This is what happened after chapter 20 of "I fell for you", when Arthur finally went to Eames. The prompts forced me into a frustrating time skip in that story. I didn't stick to the 100-word per chapter format.
> 
> Particular thanks to Amy (swtalmnd) for sticking with that story, despite her rule against angst, and for reading over this one for me. You're lovely!

He checks the flight time again. Arthur will be landing soon. Will he call from the airport? He told Eames not to come out to fetch him: “I’ll just get a cab, Eames.” 

So Eames paces in his apartment, checking, even though he knows, to make sure he has everything they might need. Milk, coffee, tea, bread. Scotch. Condoms. That might be presuming too much. In fact, he’s sure it is. 

His stomach is knotting unpleasantly. It’s hard to believe that after all this time, after all his baffling rejections and uncertainty, Arthur is coming here, to Eames. And not just to sleep on his sofa and hold himself apart, Eames is pretty certain.

Eames had told him, spelt it out in words, how he has felt ever since that morning in the snow in New York — not far from here! How he was sure, during the Fischer job, that Arthur finally understood and wanted the same thing. How he was certain, when Arthur walked into the hotel bar, that they were about to take the first step. How he knew, when Arthur loosened his tight grip on his composure in that bar, that they’d wake up together. And how he’d felt slapped down, punched in the gut, when Arthur declined to invite him in. How confusing Arthur’s late-night arrival at his window and days-long stay on his sofa and in his bed had been. How much Arthur’s sudden kiss and equally sudden withdrawal had hurt him. How he just couldn’t stay away, even to guard his own heart. 

Arthur had not said much in reply, just started to come to him.

Eames hopes Arthur will finally tell him all he longs to know, why he’d been so bafflingly hesitant and distant and downright cruel. But he’s not sure he wants to hear all that now. 

Now, today, he wants whatever Arthur is prepared to give him. He hopes it’s his heart, at least partly. He hopes it’s his body.

He paces, glancing at his watch. His phone rings.

“Arthur.”

“Eames.” He hears Arthur swallow nervously; in the background, the sounds of the busy airport. “I’m here. I’m getting a cab. I’ll be there soon.”

“Yes.” After all the talking, the hours of confessing, Eames has nothing more. 

“I’ll be there soon,” Arthur repeats. His voice is soft, full of promise.

Eames paces, glancing at his watch. Even so, the door buzzer startles him. “Arthur?” 

“I’m here.”

“Top floor.” 

“Okay.”

He steps out onto the landing, starts down the stairs, looks down just as Arthur glances up — and smiles, a bit hesitant. “Arthur!”

“Eames.” Arthur climbs faster and they meet halfway. Eames stands uncertainly, waiting for Arthur to make the first move. 

Arthur reaches up and touches his cheek. “Hello.”

“Hello.” 

Then Arthur starts climbing again. He is carrying an overnight bag — medium size. Eames is half a step behind. Arthur pauses at the flat’s open door.

“Come in.” He reaches for the bag. “Would you like …?” How to proceed? The phone call in the dark was intimate, speaking quietly, listening to Arthur breathe on the other side of the country. Now, for all they’ve spent many hours, days, months together, awake and asleep, working and dreaming, he feels he has to get to know Arthur — all his hidden parts — properly. Does he have the patience? What does Arthur want? At least now he really knows what Eames wants. 

“Do you want a drink? Tea? Coffee? Did you nap on the plane?” Eames didn’t sleep after the phone call, far too wired for that, but at least he’d been asleep when Arthur rang. 

“Not really. Tea? Yes, I’ll have tea with you.” A fleeting smile. “You were making tea when I …”

“I was.” Eames steps into his tiny kitchen, fills the kettle and sets it to boil. Arthur hovers in the doorway. It feels horribly familiar. He busies himself with the mugs, the milk and sugar, not daring to look at Arthur. The kettle whistles, he pours the water into the teapot. He’s being deliberately precise, to give himself space. Arthur advances into the kitchen, stands at the counter, waiting. Eames pours the tea. “Milk, sugar?”

“Yes, no … milk, no sugar.”

The hot mug burns his fingers as he hands it to Arthur, handle first, and picks up his own. “Shall we?” He gestures towards the sitting room and follows Arthur, who sits on the sofa. Eames sits at the other end and takes refuge in his tea, steam tickling his nose. Arthur sips cautiously at his too.

“Flight okay?”

“Yes. Fine.”

He doesn’t want to talk about Arthur’s flight but he doesn’t know how to move on, now that Arthur’s here, possibly ready. He would not have come if he was not, surely.

“What do—?”

“Eames, I—”

He stops, gestures for Arthur to continue.

Arthur sets his tea down and half turns towards him. “Eames, I have been so stupid. And mean.”

Eames begins to reach for him, but Arthur holds up a hand. “Let me finish?” Eames sags back.

“I was so exhausted from all that running with Dom. I know I led you on in the dream, in the hotel in the dream. And in the hotel afterwards. But it wouldn’t have been fair to start anything then. Drunk and exhausted.”

Eames nods. Arthur is right. That’s not really how he wanted to start with Arthur. If he wants to finally have him. And keep him. Be kept by him. But he wants to ask: why not later, at his house? Or at Arthur’s? 

“Why not later? At your house?” He seems to have read Eames’ mind. “I don’t know if I can explain. I felt so unhinged, unmoored. Suddenly without that focus. I wasn’t sleeping. I thought I’d recover, but I just couldn’t seem to. I couldn’t seem to catch up.”

“But why not—?”

“Why not at my house? When I did, and then pulled back? That was the stupidest, stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I’m not sure I can explain it. I panicked. And then I was so ashamed I just …” He gestures vaguely, lets his hand fall onto the sofa between them. They sit in silence a moment, Eames looking at Arthur’s elegant hand, with its inelegant bitten nails.

“But you still kept trying to make me understand. You kept waiting for me.”

“What else could I do, Arthur? I didn’t have a choice.”

“Yeah …” Now Arthur moves his hand towards Eames. He’s sitting too far away, so he shifts to meet Arthur and reaches out his own hand. Arthur turns his hand over and lets Eames slip his into it and they are quiet, holding hands as the afternoon declines. Arthur sighs. And then he yawns, reminding them both that he hasn’t yet slept properly. 

“Would you like to go … to bed? To sleep? Would you like a nap, Arthur?”

Arthur looks at him with pure relief. “God yes. I promise … I won’t just … but right now? Yes. Will you come with me?”

That was what Eames intended. “Yes.” He stands up and pulls Arthur after him and leads him to the bedroom. 

Arthur stops just inside the door and takes off his shoes and pulls off his sweater. His hands drop to his belt, and then he hesitates.

“Get comfortable, Arthur.” Eames unbuckles his own belt and takes off his jeans. He turns away to the bed and behind him he hears the clink of Arthur’s buckle and the soft sound of his jeans being pushed down. “Do you need …?” He gestures to the bathroom and Arthur shuffles through. He’s half-asleep already. 

When he comes back, he says: “Which side?” Eames shows him and goes to the bathroom himself.

Arthur seems already asleep when he returns. Eames gets in on his side. He should turn his back and leave Arthur alone, but he can’t. He fits himself round Arthur, an arm over his waist, and Arthur sighs and relaxes against him.

Eames lies a long time listening to him breathe, but eventually he too falls asleep.

*******

It’s gone dark when he wakes up. Arthur has curled up in his sleep, but he hasn’t moved away. Eames lifts onto his elbow to look at him. Arthur is frowning slightly, as if he is arguing with someone. He reaches a tentative hand and smooths the crease from between his brows. Arthur pushes slightly into his touch and opens his eyes. He turns towards Eames and the frown returns as he clearly tries to remember where he is. Why he’s there.

“You’re in my bed,” says Eames. 

“Oh yeah,” says Arthur, “yeah. I came to see you.”

“About time,” says Eames, making Arthur smile.

“About time,” he echoes. He stretches, displaying the lean muscles of his arms, the line of his throat. 

Eames leans into his space, waits for Arthur to understand his intent, and kisses him. He’s really trying not to to push too far, too fast. It’s Arthur who deepens the kiss, gasping and opening his mouth to Eames, sliding his hand to the back of his neck. Eames tilts his head at the same time as Arthur does and they knock noses. Arthur huffs a laugh and adjusts and Eames pushes in more forcefully, holding himself up on an arm until his elbow starts to shake. Arthur reaches up and pulls Eames down on himself and Eames catches his weight and they keep exploring each other’s mouths. Eames draws back and drops his mouth to Arthur’s throat, touching his jaw with his other hand. The feel of Arthur’s stubble — under his fingers, under his lips — reminds of his hasty departure this morning. Arthur groans, pushing one hand into Eames’ hair and the other under the hem of his T-shirt; stroking up his back. It could be an invitation, but Eames is determined to let Arthur set the pace. He does nose into the neck of Arthur’s T-shirt, close enough to smell him, just warm body, no hint of soap or anything, it’s a while since Arthur showered. 

Then Arthur’s hand stills on his back and he pulls away, turns his face slightly aside. 

“Eames? Can we …? I mean … I do want … but I think we still need to talk.” He swallows. “I need to talk.”

Arthur is right, of course. It’s taken them too long, too much heartache, to get here, just to hurry past their feelings into passion. But Eames also really doesn't want to stop now, still terrified that Arthur will run.

“A pause? Not a halt?” He’s frowning, can feel his mouth drawn tight.

“God, no! Fuck, Eames! No! I just need to tell you …” Arthur’s stomach rumbles.

“When last did you eat?”

“Last night? I was too tense, today.”

“Alright, Arthur. Here’s what we're going to do. You’re going to shower while I order food. Then we can talk, and then—”

“Yes.” Arthur says, and leans back in and kisses Eames, cutting him off, before getting out of bed and walking towards the bathroom, pulling off his T-shirt as he goes, revealing the long line of his back, leaving Eames feeling a little stranded.

He shakes it off and gets up himself. “Towels on the shelf,” he says, through the door. “I'll get your things.” He retrieves Arthur’s bag and brings it to the bedroom. “You want your shaving things?” 

“Yes, please,” Arthur calls, above the sound of the shower, so Eames has to step into the bathroom. He stops and just stares at the ghost of Arthur behind the fogged-up shower stall door.

“Eames?” says Arthur.

“Here you go!” he says, setting the kit on the counter and backing out, willing his arousal to fade. “Vietnamese okay for you?” he calls.

“What? Yeah, great!” 

He stands in the kitchen, drumming his fingers on the counter, waiting for the food, and for Arthur. The door buzzes and he goes to get the bag, returning just as Arthur walks down the hall from the bedroom. His hair is damp and apparently uncombed, pushed off his face, and and he’s wearing a different T-shirt. He’s barefoot. He looks almost at home. 

“Feel better?” 

“Yes!” He walks straight up to Eames and rubs his now smooth cheek against his jaw. “That smells amazing,” he says.

He follows Eames into the kitchen and waits for him to get the food out. 

“You want a beer?” 

“Sure.” 

They take the food and beers into the sitting room and for a little while, eat in silence, Arthur sighing with pleasure. When about half the food is gone, he sets his plate down and leans back. 

“Eames,” he says, “I came because I want to try … try more than just a casual thing.” He looks almost unhappy. “I didn't invite you into my room after the Fischer job because I was too drunk. I didn't just want a drunken hook-up.”

“I’ve never wanted that,” says Eames. “Never. I always wanted _you_.” 

“Good,” says Arthur, leaning forward to get more food. “Good.” He looks over at Eames while he eats, and his eyes are dancing.

Eames feels a weight slip off his shoulders and he smiles too.

“Don’t eat too much,” says Arthur, getting up and taking Eames’ empty plate, setting it on the coffee table. He bends down and kisses Eames, bracing his hands on the back of the sofa. Eames puts his hands on Arthur’s hips, tugs him onto his lap and keeps him there. Arthur drops his hands, cradles Eames’ face, stroking his thumbs along his cheekbones, his fingers along his jaw. He looks almost stunned.

“Darling,” says Eames, daring to twitch his hips up, “darling …” And Arthur answers him with his body.

“Shall we …?”

“Go to bed? I mean, to the bedroom. Yes please, Eames.”

They don’t sleep for hours. They wake up at noon the next day, but they stay in bed. They have a lot of catching up to do.


End file.
